


Glen Coe

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Squad Goals [9]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: One Scottish kirk is very much like another, and they are all very much like one in particular.





	

The rain drips from the tip of his nose, splashing rhythmically against his knitted hands. He watches each drop as it falls and disperses absently without feeling the icy pinprick which accompanies each bead. He is aware that his arms and legs are seizing up in their rarely-assumed position, but isn't quite ready to move from his self-contained, protective position, and while his shoulders are whining he's no longer sure that his knees can be unfolded from up near his ears.

* * *

It's been years now. He remembers turning his coat collar up against the cold and wind even just for the short jog from the bunker to the car and cranking the heat up at Q’s behest, drumming his fingers anxiously on the wheel for almost the entire journey.

He had been nervous; because of Silva, but mostly because of her. He could always read her well, but he had definitely committed sackable offences that day and she never had been known for her indulgent, forgiving nature. Stopping at a red light, he had cringed internally at the face she would pull and the bollocking he would receive.

_One job, Tanner. Aided only by a misguided attempt at chivalry, you allowed the second-most important woman in the bloody country to be kidnapped._

_Hard to see how it could have gone much worse, really._

It wasn't hard, in the end.

* * *

The cold water is starting to seep up from under him and the small part of him which is not concentrating hard on not throwing up again curses his decision to sit on the sodden heath.

 _Decision_ might be a bit too generous.

* * *

Embers were still fluttering gently to the heather when Bill had arrived, driving astonished towards the orange glow that had once been a manor house. He and Q got out almost mechanically, and Bill allowed himself a moment to soak in the creaking, crackling beams, the flames licking at the constellations and the searing heat which, even from a distance, reddened Q’s pale cheeks.

The helicopter groaned like a dying beast and sank further into the building with a shower of sparks and a further wave of heat. Despite everything, Bill shuddered, before squaring his shoulders and striding across the moor to the little chapel.

* * *

It's not that he doesn't see the trust that has been bestowed upon him. In fact, for something he sees as small and fragile, cradled in his mind's eye with two hands, it presses on his head and shoulders with the weight of an anvil.

_“Come on, Bill,” James grins, and Bill rolls his eyes preemptively. “Surely you've got a scrapbook of perfect weddings hidden away somewhere. Who could be better equipped?”_

_“You didn't like the church I recommended in France,” Bill sniffs, trying valiantly to hide his amusement._

_“Then find one I will like in Scotland,” Bond says, seeing through him with trained ease. He tries a different, serious tack. “You_ know _Q is overloaded, and I'm off to Argentina for a month. Please, Obi Wan, you're my only hope.”_

 _Bill snorts and throws a pen at his head. “If you are anyone, Bond, you are Chewbacca and_ not _Leia. But I will endeavour to find a suitably bleak and depressing church in which you and Q may seal your fates, God help you both. God help us all.”_

But it is so _hard_ to make any progress when rain becomes falling cinders, candlelight transforms into burning houses, weak light through stained glass turning amber-tainted and illuminating blood which he knows is not real and a corpse he has always denied.

There was never any time for processing. Always too much to do. Perhaps he had thought working would help.

Bill spares a cursory glance for the bush behind which he had thrown up after the last close encounter with his own memories and his mouth curls up into a cruel, self-mocking grimace.

* * *

Tanner had opened the door so calmly. A team of the indestructible Bond and the indestructible M; there had never been any real belief that _anything_ could have gone wrong. Even the fire, the helicopter, the terrible radio silence had not registered as cause for alarm.

His treacherous mind had taken so much of it in, so greedy for horror and pain to keep him jolting awake at night as if he hadn't enough already. Bill remembers in excruciating detail the tone of the ochre light filtering through hazy ruby and lapis lazuli glass as it fell upon rust-tinged granite, the weight and the chill of the iron ring as it slipped from his numb fingers and the thunderous death-knell that followed as it crashed against the oak. He can see Silva, the pool he lay in, and the way it slowly seeped towards the one in which Bond sat, cradling the lifeless shell of one who was once great. Tanner could trace the tear tracks on Bond's face even now, years on; knows the face that looked up at him, helpless, alone and afraid.

But most of all he knows her. He remembers how she lay, entirely still, hands tucked up to her chest, half in defence and half reaching for comfort that none can provide. The way her clothing was not perfectly neat, and how this _wrongness_ was all that registered in his numb shock.

And Bond had just looked at him. Expectant. There was work to be done, and James Bond looked for a commanding officer to make everything somehow all right again.

And Bill Tanner had obliged.

He had returned to the car and collected a blanket, ignoring Q’s questioning noise. “Put her down,” he had said, gently, and Bond had. The blanket covered her small form easily, and it had been easier to breathe then. Easier to pretend.

Tanner removed Kincaide and Bond from the tiny kirk gently but firmly, directed them both to sit in the car and explain to Q everything. This had a dual purpose: both to begin the process of acceptance, according to medical, and to prevent questions from Q which Tanner was not ready to answer. Then, he phoned MI6 to arrange their removal and clean-up, then the Secretary for Defence and, finally, Mallory.

The phone was picked up almost immediately. “Mr Tanner, good-” a brief pause while the other man found a clock, “-morning.”

“Mr Mallory, the Prime Minister and Secretary of State for Defence will meet with you in half an hour,” Bill said, mechanically, staring ahead at the blaze without truly seeing it.

Mallory paused. “I was not aware you had become my PA, Mr Tanner.”

Q stood by his shoulder, looking to him for guidance. Bill did not turn to him. “It is a matter of some importance.” The MI6 team had arrived and were beginning their tasks, clouds of steam rising from the remains of Skyfall as first one stretcher, then another exited the kirk.

“Tanner? What is it?” Mallory had begun to sound concerned.

“I will see you in a few hours, sir.”

* * *

And one granite floor is so like another. It occurs to Bill now that he had not stopped, that night. He had orchestrated the clean-up and he had driven Bond and Q back to London and he had shaken the hand of a rather stunned Mallory, now M, and he had not slept until the next night. There was always something to be done.

She hadn't wanted a funeral, but they'd had one anyway, and Bill had not gone. A crisis had cropped up and, at the time, it had been more important that everyone else was given a chance to grieve and accept and move on than it was that he could. She wouldn't have had any time for ignoring the crisis for her sake, no tolerance for negligence in her name, and so Tanner worked.

Bill can no longer tell what is rain and what is tears, sobbing into the cold January wind, realising finally that Olivia Mansfield is dead.

After some time his sobs run out of steam and the Chief of Staff makes himself get up, get into the telephone box at the side of the single-track tarmac, get out his phone with trembling fingers. He curses softly as the headache sets in and remembers why he _hates_ crying.

Bill stares out through the misted glass panels at the moor which stretches far away on either side, disappearing into low cloud, whipped with wind and rain. The dial tone in his ear almost drowns out the methodical dripping of his jacket onto the floor.

“Afternoon, Tanner,” Q says calmly. “With what may I assist you?”

“You don't want to get married in Scotland,” he blurts out, and his voice is distorted and thick. Grimacing, he tries again. “It's cold and rains all the time.”

There is a pause. “Are you okay?” Q says hesitantly, and if he picks up on it then Bill really is being obvious. “Only, you're the one who really likes the the whole blasted heath landscape, and-”

“I can't stand in a small stone chapel in Scotland, Q.” Bill sighs, and rubs his forehead in an effort to dispell the pain building there. “Not again.”

“Oh,” Q says, and then “ _Oh._ Right. Not sure that James thought- okay.”

Bill hums down the line in acknowledgement.

Q huffs, breath crackling with poor reception. “I _liked_ the French church. Eve wants to wear a summer dress. Don't see why rain has to feature anywhere in this.”

Tanner laughs, despite himself, and wipes his eyes. “Cheers, mate. I'm more than happy to spend a week in the south of France scouting locations, if you'd like-”

“You can't, you're needed here,” Q says loftily.

“Am I?” Bill replies, half serious.

He can almost hear Q shrug. “You always are. See you in a bit, then, though I should avoid the M25 where possible.”

“Thank you, Q,” Bill says, and really, really means it.


End file.
